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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24445276">This Autumn Town</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/windywindymoors/pseuds/windywindymoors'>windywindymoors</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Gentleman Jack (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - College/University, Angst, Eventual Smut maybe, F/F, Fluff, Kissing, Moving plot, Poetry, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Tension, eventual kissing after many chapters, the slowest burn</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 09:52:53</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,586</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24445276</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/windywindymoors/pseuds/windywindymoors</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Modern day setting— if Anne Lister and Ann Walker met in college; different scenarios; there is a plot. Set at UNC Chapel Hill.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Anne Lister (1791-1840)/Ann Walker (1803-1854)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>61</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Anne Lister enters the lecture hall where students are piling in from the entrances above and below, the 1970s stadium seating sprawls out in front of her. She scans for a seat, lots of spots open, steps out of the way to let other people pass while she makes her decision, fixes the weight of her book bag on her shoulders, swallows hard to wet her throat. She had to get here quickly from her last lecture. </p>
<p>It’s the first day of Anatomy &amp; Physiology lab, fourth day of post grad. The ink on Anne’s undergrad diploma is barely dry and here she is again, back for more learning. She’s nervous, thinks  about her outfit, floral button down, navy ankle length slacks and simple brown flats. She decides on the empty third row from the top, where she can spread out a bit for the next 80 minutes. </p>
<p>Makes her way carefully up the stairs, stepping aside to let another student pass. They smile shyly at each other, her shoes clack a bit on the floor, place her bag on the chair just over, and finally,  she sits down. Grabs the pen out of her pocket, clicks it while she reads over Dr. Liscombe’s syllabus. The hum of voices and shuffling of feet fills the room when she hears a soft laugh floating above it, looks up and freezes in her stomach. <em> Her </em>, she thinks. </p>
<p>They waited together, well not together together, just happened to occupy the admissions waiting room at the same time a few days earlier. Anne’s schedule was incorrect and she assumed hers was as well. She could have asked, but didn’t. She was trying to discreetly look at Ann Walker from behind her phone. Dressed relaxed in a black cotton dress belted at the waist with Jack Rogers, Ann walked in and sat down across from Anne Lister. She immediately noticed Ann’s legs and then her eyes, sharp and blue, to go with the edgy undercut of her hair. <br/><br/>Anne is called into the admin office first and Ann Walker is gone by the time she leaves, the faint smell of Ann’s perfume is the only indication that she was here. Floral, clean, feminine. Ann Walker takes a seat with the gal she’s walked in with five rows below Anne. This time she notices her ass, can’t help it. Anne loves a good bum, always has. Watches her posture and the flick of her hair, <em> a good neck as well </em>. The familiar butterfly feeling of attraction is humming in Anne’s stomach.</p>
<p>Dr. Liscombe enters the classroom, leather briefcase in hand. He is tall with short dark hair and a full, short-haired beard, wearing a green dress shirt and black slacks, top button undone on his shirt. He introduces himself and begins to take roll. The twenty grad students quiet down. Anne raises her hand when called and he comments that he’s happy she is in his charge again. She smiles shyly, but his compliment is most appreciated. His classes are demanding and leaving no doubt that he will get the best out of them in this lab. Her name is called last, Ann Walker.</p>
<p>Her brain tells her to cool it. <em> Ok Anne, calm down and focus. </em> She’s worried she’ll forget everything she’s learned. There are 206 bones, 640 muscles, endless tendons and ligaments... <em> Wow, I’m trying to impress her and we’ve not yet spoken. </em> <em> <br/><br/></em></p>
<p>“Alright everyone,” Liscombe says, “I’m now going to assign your lab partners for the semester.” Anne waits for her name to be called, she feels bad for the person who’s paired with her. She knows how the body is made, how it works, how it moves, but in the lab and under the microscope, it all looks the same to Anne. </p>
<p>“And lastly, Anne, you’ll be with Ann Walker. I trust you’ll be an excellent representation of what I expect in my class and in this program.” <br/><br/>Sweat moves out of their glands and across her back. She responds with, “Yes, sir,” and he goes on to tell Ann a little bit about her. Anne Lister wants to die. He’s spotlighting her, but she’s humbled in her skill set. Also, she thinks Ann Walker is a major babe. Ann Walker turns around and smiles at Anne as she makes her way down the stairs. Anne holds out her hand and sofly shakes Ann Walker’s as they introduce themselves. They exchange numbers easily. Anne tries desperately not to get lost in her eyes or stare at her hair. <br/><br/>“Where are you living?” asks Anne <br/><br/>“In a flat above Spanky’s,” <br/><br/>“How did you swing that?” says Anne, flabbergasted. “Where you live is prime, right on Franklin Street.” Ann smiles and says it was just dumb luck. <br/><br/>“Well, I’m just three streets north on Rose. I share a place with my friend Jennifer, who’s a dental student.” <br/><br/>The southern in Anne is coming out, “Are you settling in ok? Meeting new people?” <br/><br/>Another bright smile from Ann Walker makes Anne feel a puddle in her stomach, she tells Anne she is easing into life here. <br/><br/>“Well, how about coffee tomorrow? We’re going to be working together a lot this semester and we need to be comfortable in the lab.” <br/><br/></p>
<p>Ann Walker agees and Anne checks her watch. It’s Jennifer.<br/><br/><em> Anne, waiting here for you </em> it reads with a picture of a bourbon and coke. Anne smiles and forgets that Ann is awkwardly standing there waiting on her. <br/><br/>“Are you walking back?” </p>
<p>Anne nods and asks if she’d  like to walk with her, and so, here they are turning onto Franklin with the setting sun at their backs, wind through the trees, tossing leaves in every direction. <br/><br/>They say goodbye to you at Ann’s flat and Anne heads to He’s Not to meet Jennifer. <br/><br/>“Anne, how was your day? You looked flushed.” <br/><br/>“Oh Jenn,” she says, taking a long sip of her drink. Cinnamon and pepper swirls across her palette as the tension leaves her body. <br/><br/>“Tell me all about it,” she says laughing. “There’s a girl in your class, isn't there?” <br/><br/>“Yesssss,” Anne says with an exaggerated groan while putting her head in her hand. Just then her phone lights up, a text from Ann Walker. <em> Hi thanks for walking home with me. </em> She holds her phone up and in a high voice tells Jennifer “LOOK!” <br/><br/>She is equally excited, asking what she’s going to say. <br/><br/>“Something simple, obviously.” And she does. <em> You’re welcome, see you tomorrow for coffee. </em> <br/><br/>“So, Jenn, tell me about your students,” and they lose themselves in their drinks and the buzz of the bar. <br/><br/></p>
<p>///</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>A poetry reading</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Anne sits staring at Ann Walker over the top of her mask. Despite dousing it in peppermint oil, the smell of formaldehyde still seeps through. In front of them is an arm, dissected from the epidermis all the way down to the nerves of the arm and the hand. </p><p>“What long muscle of the forearm is absent in ten percent of the population?”<br/><br/>Liscombe’s voice enters her ears as if she’s underwater, and she knew that it was too late.</p><p>“Anne?”</p><p>“Um. The flexor digitorum?”</p><p>Liscombe gives her a double take before saying, “If that were true, then ten percent of the population would be walking around giving people the middle finger.”<br/><br/><em> Shit. </em> <em><br/></em> <em><br/></em> It had been six weeks since they had gone out for coffee. She was crushing hard, her work was suffering and she wasn’t sleeping. Anne knew something had to change, and it couldn’t be her lab partner. It was an option, but not one she would want to entertain or even try to explain to Dr. Liscombe as to why she wanted to switch.<br/><br/>After class, Liscombe expressed his irritation with her lack of attentiveness in class. She apologized as best she could.<br/><br/>“Do you need a pep talk?” he asked.</p><p>“No, sir. No, I don’t.”<br/><br/>“Well you know my policy. Come by any time.”</p><p>She gave a nod, a sheepishly embarrassed smile and turned and left, walking the hall to the door in a daze, self-loathing the whole way.<br/><br/>Her phone rang almost immediately after exiting the concrete building. It was Jenny.</p><p> </p><p>“A poetry reading? Tonight?” She pinched the bridge of her nose. This was the shit her best friend was on about.<br/><br/>She notices Ann walking towards her, in all her glory, fucking swish hair and long legs. <em>Just what I don't need right now.<br/><br/></em>Ann comes to a stop just near her, allowing her to finish the conversation.<br/><br/>“The Library? Sure. What time? Mhmm. Dinner before? Ok. See you then. ”</p><p>Ann steps forward to speak. </p><p>“Did I hear you say poetry reading?”</p><p>“Yes,” Anne says, letting breath escape and whistle over her teeth. “My roommate would like to go to the one at The Library tonight.” </p><p>“The library is open late?”<br/><br/>“What?” Anne asks, confused. “Oh, no. Not the actual library. There’s a bar called The Library.”<br/><br/>Ann Walker laughs, relieved, and moves to tell Anne that if she needs anymore help studying the parts of the arm, she’d be more than happy to help.<br/><br/>They stand in awkward silence.<br/><br/>“So, um, what time is the poetry reading?”</p><p>“8:30 this evening.”<br/><br/>“You know I didn’t have you pegged for poetry readings.”<br/><br/>“Pfff, I’m not really into them or into poetry, if that’s even a thing.”<br/><br/>"Could I join you?"</p><p>"Of course."</p><p>“So, why…” Ann stops mid sentence, afraid of asking, prying, to know why Anne doesn’t like poetry, but, she moves on with the question, “Why don’t you like poetry?”</p><p>Anne is caught off guard, thinks about it for a minute, aware that her answer may not land softly between the two of them. She shifts her weight before telling Ann that more often than not, she finds herself lost in what the author is trying to say. “I sometimes feel I need special training or education to appreciate it. Why can’t authors just be more direct in how they feel?”<br/><br/>“Well, they are saying how they feel, very directly, in fact.”<br/><br/>“Really? It seems rather hidden to me.”<br/><br/>Ann Walker chuckles, looks at Anne and says, “Perhaps you’ve just not heard the right poem, or the right kind of poetry, read by the right person.”<br/><br/>There’s a tingle in Anne’s spine, a twinge in her belly that she ignores as she smiles, softly.<br/><br/>“Perhaps. So, I reckon I’ll see you later?”<br/><br/>“Save me a seat.”<br/><br/>//</p><p>The Library is packed with students and the rich, dark, leather furniture is overtaken, the swank atmosphere of the old bar hums above the crowd. Ann Walker steps inside after paying her entry, heads for the bar, and orders a glass of wine. She turns and scans the crowd while bringing the pinot grigio to her lips and letting the crisp, dry fruit engulf her mouth. Her eyes rake over the dark yet muted damask wallpaper, black and white photos of famous authors drape the walls. Finally, she spots Anne and Jenny at a table across the room, just outside the brightness of the house lights. Anne is wearing crisp dark jeans, brown boots, and silk black blouse. <em> Mhmmm.  </em>Jennifer, or who Ann assumes to be her, is standing with her hand on Anne’s shoulder laughing, a sound that lightly carries and fills the room. It’s inviting and Ann makes her way over to their table, nervously running her hand through her hair.<br/><br/>“Hi!” Enthusiasm for new people is not lost on Jennifer. “You must be Ann Walker.”<br/><br/>“Guilty,” she replies, raising her glass. </p><p>Anne says hello and motions for her to come sit down. Space is tight and Ann’s leg just brushes hers as she sits down. Unnerved, she sips her bourbon and ginger ale.<br/><br/>Breaking the silence Ann asks who to speak to about reading.<br/><br/>“Oh, I put you on the list,” Anne tells her.<br/><br/>“Perfect.”<br/><br/>Just then, the lights dim and the crowd quiets. A young man with trimmed facial hair, an untucked flannel and khakis steps up to the mic, welcoming everyone and thanking them for coming. He keeps his introduction short and smiles at the crowd before inviting the first person to come up to the mic and read.<br/><br/>Jenny is on the edge of her seat listening, giving snaps, clapping, even whistling for a few she really liked. A few people have read some by Tennessee Williams, her favorite. Anne is listening but the meaning is lost on her. It’s just words people are reading off paper. People move around them, chairs scraping, ice sliding and clinking in glass.<br/><br/>Ann leans towards Anne and whispers, behind her ear, “Still not getting it are you?”<br/><br/>The sudden intrusion of voice and breath surprises her, raising the hairs on the back of her neck. She turns a bit and says, “No, not really.”<br/><br/>“Well, in a poem, language remains itself yet is also made to feel different, even sacred, like a spell.”</p><p>Ann raises an eyebrow during this long but short stare with Anne. Even in the low lighting, she can see red rising in her cheeks. Anne herself is vaguely aware of Ann’s hand on her knee.<br/><br/>Jenny’s squeal of being called to read breaks through their tension.<br/><br/>She begins reading <em> The Soft City </em> by Tennessee Williams, the words flowing like water out of her mouth in her thick, coastal accent into the ears of her audience.<br/><br/><br/><em> “And if there is something which is not soft in the city, </em></p><p>
  <em> such as a cry too hard for the soft mouth to hold, </em>
</p><p>
  <em>          God puts a soft stop to it. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Bending invisibly down, He breathes a narcosis</em>
</p><p>
  <em> over the panicky face upturned to entreat Him: </em>
</p><p><em> a word as soft as </em> morphine <em> is the word that God uses, </em></p><p>
  <em> placing His soft hand over the mouth of the cryer </em>
</p><p><em> before it has time to gather the force of a cry.”<br/></em> <em><br/></em> <em><br/></em> She bounces back to their table, grinning and waving to the crowd.<br/><br/>“She really knows how to work them hey,” Ann says. Anne bends her head towards Ann and nods in agreement. </p><p>Ann’s heart drops a bit when she hears her name called, her nerves make her legs feel heavy as she makes her way to the stage, the lights suddenly feel very bright, like she needs to squint. She has a feeling of quiet panic, she knows the poem by heart, but will she remember the words? She takes a silent breath, her poem needs no introduction, so she begins.<br/><br/><br/><em> Coming together<br/><br/></em><em>It is easier to work<br/><br/></em><em>After our bodies<br/><br/></em><em>Meet<br/><br/></em><em>Paper and pen </em></p><p>
  <em>Neither care nor profit </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Whether we write or not </em>
</p><p>
  <em> But as your body moves  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> under my hands </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Charged and waiting </em>
</p><p>
  <em> We cut the leash<br/><br/></em>
</p><p>“Holy shit,” Anne whispers, Jenny gently holds her hand as they listen. <br/><br/></p><p>
  <em>You create me against your thighs</em>
</p><p>
  <em> Hilly with images </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Moving through our word countries </em>
</p><p>
  <em> My body  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Writes into flesh </em>
</p><p>
  <em> The poem you make of me<br/><br/></em>
</p><p>“Jesus.” Jenny whispers. Anne is mesmerized, sweat forms at the base of her skull, the same twinge in her belly from this afternoon. Hauntingly, she hears Ann’s voice swirl and drip in her brain, recalling,<em>“Perhaps you’ve just not heard the right poem, or the right kind of poetry, read by the right person.”  </em>Her heart pulses in her ears. <br/><br/></p><p>Ann scans the crowd and finds Anne, meets her eyes, and reads the final lines</p><p>
  <em> Touching you I catch midnight </em>
</p><p>
  <em> As moon fires set in my throat </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I love you flesh into blossom </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I made you </em>
</p><p>
  <em> And take you made  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Into me. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> // </em>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Poems used in this chapter</p><p>The Soft City by Tennessee Williams<br/>Recreation by Audre Lorde</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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